Homewards
by FanFicAddict02
Summary: After being separated from the gang for years, Jessie is turned to human form and loses her memories. It's up to Woody to find and join forces with the rest of the old gang to save her (a loose rewrite of my old fic 'Desires')


**_Homewards_**

 **Chapter One**

 **Summary: After being separated from the gang for years, Jessie is turned to human form and loses her memories and it's up to Woody to find and join forces with the rest of the gang to save her (a loose rewrite of my old fic 'Desires')**

()()()()()

It is three in the morning. The neighbourhood is quiet, peaceful; the air is crisp and cold, a heavy fog blanketing the city.

All is as it should be. As it ought to be.

In a quaint two-bedroomed house speaking of older times, an elderly couple sleep soundly in their beds. Downstairs, in their kitchen, a light is turned on. A passerby, perhaps heading home from a night out with their friends or from a late night of studying in the library (as was the case for local college students), may assume its purpose is one of protection, to ward off criminals and, especially, burglars. and may perhaps think of it as peculiar. Rather peculiar indeed. This neighbourhood and, indeed, this area of the city sees very little crime. So little, in fact, that reports of thievery are almost nonexistent. Ask a local, and they will hesitate, finger tapping their chin, and after a few moments of pondering will answer that the last instance of notice in this area was the unfortunate egging of a dog about three years prior to this. Furthermore, they will make a great fuss of pointing out that this was merely an isolated incident of delinquency and only by a very liberal stretch of the imagination considered a 'crime'. The teens were punished, taught their lessons, and all has been peaceful ever since.

No, their neighbourhood is safe, sound - proper - and they were proud of this. It was the jewel of the city, and made a great area in which raise your children and mind your pets, and with this brought great security of mind. The children went to reputable colleges; the pets champions of all sorts of competitions. They will perhaps attribute this to the presence of a small church at the end of the street. Even delinquents pale at the thought of desecrating a godly place.

Ask a neighbour, however, and they will, with the flash of the eyes behind them to make sure they aren't being spied, state the matter plainly. The couple are stark-raving mad. Always with five eyes on the back of their head, they will say. Zealots in every conceivable non-Christian way, superstitious even. Don't even leave the house without protective gloves, and probably sleep in a bed doused with bleach, too. No, no. All is fine in the area. Nothing is amiss at all.

So it appears strange then that against this light, at such an ungodly time in the morning, the silhouette of a man protrudes in the doorway of the basement three or so meters above the floor. And perhaps even ominous how, despite the light, shadows ghost-trail the side of the wall descending further into the darkness as he takes careful steps down, feeling his way into the depths of the basement. The sound his hand makes as it slides down the wall imitates that of one running their fingers through sand. It is cold, and he grimaces when his arm tears through what he can only assume to be cobwebs.

When his foot finally feels the security of the floor, the middle age man (perhaps approaching forty) takes a few steps towards the centre of the room and reaches for the light switch. When it is within his grasp, he pulls at it and the lightbulb flickers once, twice, three times until the light pulsates brighter in resistance and finally bursts. The man groans dimly, not very surprised, fumbles in his pocket for a box of matches, fishes one out, and lights it. The sleepy orange flame instantly illuminates the centre of the room in a halo of light, beyond the ambit of which the darkness is even more pronounced and ungodly. He walks towards a small table at the end of the room, picks up and candle and lights it before returning to the centre again.

He looks down. On the ground lie two dolls on a bed of ivory-coloured fabric. The first he noticed was small stuffed toy with yellow yarn hair matted with dust and dirt. The second was a rag doll with a plastic face. Messy brown hair and hazel eyes, sickly faced with very odd chin-to-neck proportions. Taking in the sight of this, he smiles. Yes, yes. This doll is an exact replica.

Now grinning ecstatically, he kneels down before the two dolls. The two pairs of eyes staring up at him are lacquered with curious inanimate wonder. They are completely motionless, just as they should be around folk like him.

 _Not for much longer,_ he thinks and gives a small chuckle, shaking his head. _God bides by this - it'll work._

"I know your little secret," he says to them, looking pointedly at them both perhaps expecting some kind of a reaction. If there are any internal mechanisms working away in their tiny little heads, they certainly aren't openly manifest. He frowns. "But it's okay. I know you're afraid, but there's nothing to be afraid of. I know what you can do."

Still no reaction. He is used to this, but it's still a little disheartening.

"You know," he begins, his voice barely above a conspiring whisper. "My brother used to be like you. Once. A long time ago. But he wasn't as pure-what I mean by that, is, he didn't start out like you. He had a life before."

Still no answer. His heart deflates.

"When we were just teenagers - him nineteen going on 20 and me barely even seventeen - he messed with someone - a warlock, a witch, a magician or whatever, I don't know - and I remember him coming back to me, saying he doesn't have much time and he really needs help, don't tell mum and dad, et cetera," he sighs, blinks, and continues. "I thought he had been threatened by somebody for all the sense I could get out of him. So we return to where he last saw the guy, but they were nowhere to be found. Except...except as we were pulling out of the car-space, I swore this person - can I even call them that? - dressed in something so strange and so ancient wink at me in the rearview mirror. I turned my head to see who this was, suspecting it was our guy, but he had gone without a trace. Vanished. My brother started to panic after that. Saying he was cursed, cursed for sure, and there was no going back. And he was sick, so badly sick. I still had no idea what he meant, not even regarding how I tried to get some sense out of him. So we went home and I tried to convince him to sleep it off. And after that day...well, he never stood up to his size again." He pauses again and looks at the dolls. "This making any sense?"

Nothing. He touches his temples and drags his hands down the side of his face, sighing deeply.

"No matter. The point was the curse was so bad it couldn't be undone. He was forgotten by everyone else - including our parents, those bat-crazy loons - except me. And my grandmother, of course. I don't know why, but never us. My grandmother...well, she was special, and wouldn't forget. For me, he was all I could have depended on when I was younger..." he shakes his head, his lips quivering under the weight of his memories now. "He went crazy, knowing every single damn thing that had happened to him that day. He was being haunted by the remembrance of his past life - his _human_ life. And he tried to go on, to keep fighting, but just got weaker and weaker until he finally took a step forward and threw himself in the trash."

He stops, barely able to continue. "I heard that a toy frets about their own fate - how they're set for the trash, abandonment, wearing down and breaking over the ages. My grandmother once told me that a human's mind is always clearer than that of a toys. I was so young I thought she was crazy at the time - we all did - but I think I know now what she meant. She was making sense after all. She-" He cuts himself off, almost swallows his word before looking pointedly towards the masculine doll. "She told me you'd come back one day. And here...here you are! I found you! I found you! After so many years!"

"Can you understand me?" There is no answer.

He repeats the question once, then twice, more, but still no answer comes. Finally, he senses he is not going to get one. In frustration, he rises to his feet and heads toward the far stone wall. Outside the halo of light now, the voices of his past begin to catch up with him. _You're a failure to this family._ He moans and punches the wall. _You can never achieve anything._ He yells, not giving a thought to the sleeping couple above. _You grandmother was crazy, son. You're our only child. All her stupid dolls have turned to dust by now._ He grinds his fist into the stone. _If you keeping on dreaming like her, Arthur, you'll end up like her too. We'll have no choice._

"It's stupid," he says, his face contorting with disbelief, with despair. "They were right. It's stupid - _I'm_ stupid to have ever believed in something like this. It should have worked." His eyes were reddening with the threat of crying. "It should work. It should work. It should work!"

Pulling his arm back, he is about to hit the wall again before stopping himself. His throat is so tight it's a challenge for him to breath. Closing his eyes, he hopelessly murmurs. "It's true, he's gone for good. It's pointless. I'm pointless."

He is still for a few moments as he tries to compose himself and catch his breath, until:

"You're not pointless." His heart leaps into his throat, threatens to choke him. With widening eyes, he turns around towards the centre of the room and there, sitting now atop the ivory bed as if emerged from slumber, the yellow-haired doll stares at him with eyes full of life. The figure of the masculine doll is still lying at her side, inanimate with complete lifelessness. "No-one is."

~X~X~X~

 _Nothing was worse than the sound of a bullet. Its tenor of sheer, utter destruction was unrivaled by many other sounds in the Western world. To the Sheriff, it was not only the sound of justice served at the most horrendous costs, but was also more frequently the cacophony of the damned, the wicked and the villainous. Whenever he heard a gunshot (even when it was he himself who shot the gun), the noise was associated with deeds most horrible, most egregiously unspeakable, that it filled him with apprehension unparalleled by anything he'd ever felt before._

 _And it was with this great apprehension and no small uncertainty of mind that he ventured with his trusty steed, Bullseye, into the heart of the local gold-mine from whence the gunshots had sounded. The horse instantly shivered at the cold; the Sheriff couldn't blame him._

 _Of all the places she'd decided to hide, it had been in here. In a_ _labyrinth of darkness which, much to the misfortune of the Sheriff and the entire town, held within its depth endless supplies of dynamite._

 _"Where the darn tootin' could she be, boy?" The Sheriff asked, mostly speaking to himself. He struck a match and scanned the area about him for any sign of the suspicious cowgirl, but he could see nothing past this small ambit of light. "It sure is dark in here, isn't it?"_

 _The horse nodded, neighing half in approval and half in fright. Striding forward a few more steps, taking care where he put his hooves, he suddenly froze in terror when some out-of-the-ordinary feeling made his hair stand up in suspense. He sniffed the ground and looked about him. He sensed that something was off, and the Sheriff must have done too, for he said: "Hang on a sec there, boy. I think I heard something."_

 _"Oh, you sure did, Sheriff," Announced a voice, chillingly familiar._ _"And you're not alone in here neither. There are plenty of us here." A wicked laugh. "Why, we just about have you outnumbered."_

 _As quickly as the last word had been uttered, a blast of serpent-green light sent him hurtling five meters away from his steed. He cried aloud when he hit the ground, the wind knocked out of him and his pistol jabbing painfully into his waist. Face contorted with pain, he cradled himself for a few moments as he struggled for air, gasping violently. Finally, he sensed footsteps approaching, and opened his eyes in fright. His field of vision was filled with the frame of Dolly the Witch, one of the most dastardly villains in the west, Second only to Jessie the Cowgirl, who was standing beside her and whose yodel could tear whole towns apart._

 _"Why, I say that your time's up, Sheriff."_

 _She casts her wand at him and, before he even had any time to react, the blazing lights sent him spiraling into darkness._

 _..._

 _"Bonnie!" Ms. Anderson, barely a silhouette at the door, called. "Time to get yourself ready for Nana's, dear."_

 _Holding in the urge to roll her eyes to the back of her head, Bonnie dropped her toys to the floor and answered: "Coming."_

 _This was the last playtime any of the toys ever had with Bonnie Anderson._

~X~X~X~

"I miss Buzz."

He blinked to motion her words and looked up to face the cowgirl sitting across from him in the toybox. She was sat against the box staring emptily into the darkness as she absent-mindedly stroked Bullseye who was resting his head on her thighs. This must have been the second or third time this week she's said those exact words.

"I do too." He sighed, and this was true. No matter how many times she said this, no matter how many times he tried to reassure her that it was all okay, all for the best, and that wherever Buzz was, he was happy and had a owner who took real good care of him, no matter how much he tried to reassure _himself_ that it was all okay, he did too. Nothing could change this. He missed Buzz so much, perhaps as much as Jessie. Not just as a best friend, but as a brother too. God, how he missed him.

"I just..." Jessie started, still stroking Bullseye's mane. "I just don't know how I can ever get over this. It's just..." She turned her head rightwards. Though she was staring at wood, Woody could tell she was looking in the general direction of Lloyd, their owner, sleeping soundly in his bed. "It's just not the same without them, you know?"

"Yeah..." Woody almost cringed at the suggestion, which seemed to go against his every primal instinct as a toy, but the reality of the situation was, she was right. It was hard for him (and indeed, all three of them) to enjoy this new life considering how much they had been torn away from. Bonnie. Their friends. Their family... It was too much sometimes to fully dedicate themselves to their new owner when they had to deal with the loss of their family. "You're right, Jess."

"Do you think he's still with them?

"I hope so," seeing her wince, he corrected himself. "I _think_ so."

The truth was, he could only hope. Of his old friends, some of them were donated, and some fell victims to yard-sales. The Potato-Heads, the aliens, the Peas-in-a-Pod, Buttercup, Totoro and Mr. Pricklepants were donated to Sunnyside daycare. The rest were sold, fortunately together, at a yard sale in a big box labelled ' _Toy Collection: $5'_ to a large family only a few days after. At the time Woody was grateful, because it seemed to him that if the toys were outgrown by one kid, another in the same household may claim ownership of the toys in their place, increasing the likelihood that they'd stay together. This was promising, but he still had his worries. At times like these, he wondered how his old friends were coping. Were they happy? Were the kids at Sunnyside treating his friends well? Were they keeping in good maintenance? Did the owners of his other friends love them? Did they feel the separation as intensely as they did? Woody hoped that they didn't, and that all really was well, but sometimes...sometimes statistics and logic got the better of him, and he had to stop thinking about it or else lose himself to this darkness. Wherever they were, he hoped they were with family. Hoped they were happy.

For Woody, Jessie and Bullseye however, the situation was quite different. When their old owner Bonnie noticed that he had a great interest in the Wild West, she donated the three of them to Lloyd, one of the kids she babysat. And when they first arrived in his room, it was more appropriately adorned than even Al's. Model guns, toy lassos, clay horses, figures of plastic cowboys and Native Americans. Cowboy boots, cowboy hats and holsters. There was even a model saloon on his desk. Though he seemed more interested in the Wild West itself than anything to do with Woody and Jessie, and perhaps only had the vaguest notion of what 'Woody's Roundup' actually was, this all seemed promising to the three of them. After all, an avid interest like that doesn't just die, they told themselves time and time again. It can't just dissipate into nothing, right? So it seemed safe, even logical to assume that Lloyd wouldn't give them up, that they were secure in his ownership. Even when he inevitably grew up and engaged more 'acceptable' interests, they thought he'd keep the three of them and the rest of his toys in a special place within his heart, thus ensuring their safety.

All seemed promising.

However, things turned out worse than they had ever expected.

Much, much worse. One only had to look around the room to see how adolescence got the best of him. Gone were most traces of his childhood. All that remained was the toy lasso that dangled precariously from a hook on his door, one cowboy figurine, a Native American toy, and the three of them of course. Everything else, gone. In their places were empty soda cans, Cheezit packets, a PS5, a few video games, some soccer equipment, some posters of some of the bands he liked and of the heroine from the latest _Star Wars_ installment. It was a repeat of Emily and Andy all over again.

"We need to find him." The same words, every time. "We need to find them."

He rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand. "Yeah, Jess. I know. And we will do. But..."

"Woody?"

He sighed. "We need to wait with Lloyd. He's our owner." And then: "We wait with him, until he's old enough, and then when he tries to give us away or...throw us away, we'll take off and find the others. He's thirteen now, there's not much time left. But for now, though, the important thing is we stay together."

A few seconds of silence, and then "Woody?" She paused, almost stopped herself, and then asked: "What happens if he doesn't give us away? What if he has children? What if..." for a moment, she was subdued by the thought. "What if he puts us in the attic?"

"No," he insisted. They had this debate at least twice a week, but each one was still met with this intensity of thought and feeling. The fear that haunted them will never be passé. "No. I won't let that happen. You and Buzz were right when we went to Sunnyside The attic is no place for a toy."

As always, somehow Jessie couldn't quite reconcile his promise of a better future with the awful reality of their situation, but she tried. Hope might have been too strong a word, but she tried. God how she tried.

 **A/N: So I am Back from the dead, and plan to be writing much more of this! (There'll be more dialogue in the future, I promise!) Sorry for the opening being very cliché - it just helped with forward momentum. Also, the use of present tense in the first scene was for a reason, I swear, haha. It's going to be much more epic (and hopefully not as terrible, though I can give no guarantee) than the old fic, so I really hope you'll enjoy it!**

 **Anyway, have a good day!**

 **~X~FanFicAddict02**


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